‘Tis not much past midwinter, yet I see
forming on each tree and every bough
despite the bitter cold, determinedly,
hard, miniature buds. I know not how.
With Spring not yet a hope, how can it be?
How can these buds find courage not to hide
beneath the frozen dermis of the tree?
The surety must come from deep inside.
The dark and cold do not kill life within,
but only give new opportunities
for roots and branches that could not have been
without the cold to force new strategies,
like a chess player in retreat choosing a stance
that gives advantage for the next advance.
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